


empty spaces (hug me)

by city135



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Jealousy, Loneliness, M/M, No Romance, Past Relationship(s), Strangers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-22 22:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15592056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/city135/pseuds/city135
Summary: "So, what's your story? What kind of person goes to the same bar every other day and fucks a guy who’s coping poorly with a breakup?”





	empty spaces (hug me)

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration: [hug me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mT4Skha92Sg) \+ [hard for me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PyWedT7IVkw)  
>  **disclaimer:** there are references to mental health issues. i'm _not_ trying to say any of the people in this fic actually experience these issues in real life or anything like that; this is fiction, of course, and it's not inspired by anything irl. this is just something i've ended up working on for a month or so (?) while i've been in a bad mood.  
>  (heavy references to other pairings)

Yuta likes to people-watch.

He takes a quick look at their clothes, their hair, the expression on their faces. He likes to fill in a story for these strangers, where they might be going, might they might be doing.

Do they have families? Lovers? Are they happy? Are they alone?

Do they like being alone?

Sometimes he walks around, or sits in the park, but more often than not, Yuta finds himself in a bar, slowly nursing the same drink, watching familiar faces and new ones. The music and the alcohol are mind-numbing enough for him to focus on just these meaningless made-up stories.

It’s still early in the evening when Yuta arrives on a Tuesday, a couple of office workers sitting at one end of the bar, ties loose and sleeves rolled up. He takes a seat at the other end, far away enough for him not to be able to overhear their conversation.

The bartender (it’s the same one, almost every time) starts to get Yuta’s usual ready while Yuta starts to weave together a narrative.

He imagines they’re in sales, that they had a meeting with an important client today. Maybe they had been nervous, fidgeting with their hair and their clothes earlier, then had strolled into the meeting with that same fake confidence Yuta walks around with every day. Maybe the meeting went well, and they’re out celebrating. Or maybe, they’re here to drown out the feelings of failure and shame, wake up the next morning with a mild hangover, and start the next day.

The bar slowly fills up as the night goes on. Yuta is tracing the rim of his half empty glass when someone takes the seat beside him with a heavy sigh. There’s plenty of space elsewhere, but perhaps the man hadn't noticed. There’s dark circles under his eyes and his hair is greasy, sticking up in the back a little.

He mumbles something to the bartender, fishing out his wallet and phone, then sitting eerily still until the drink arrives.

Yuta doesn’t watch people for more than a moment or so, but he keeps glancing at the man out of the corner of his eye.

The man startles a little when his drink is places in front of him, then he downs half of it like it’s nothing and licks his lips. He picks up his phone, hesitantly, and turns it over in his hands a few times, biting down on his lower lip when finally decides to unlock it.

He stares at the screen for a while, maybe at an open app or the background wallpaper, then sighs again.

His hand moves quickly to his drink, this time, nearly knocking it over, and he finishes the rest of it, then quickly taps on the screen of his phone and brings it up to his ear.

A pause. Another sigh. And then:

“It’s me…Again. I left you a few voicemails earlier too, I dunno if you got them...I was wondering, maybe we could just...Talk? Just for a little bit. I miss you.”

He lowers his hand and presses ‘End Call’, then sets the phone on the bar (dark brown, always a little sticky), screen facing down.

 _A breakup_ , Yuta thinks. A bad one at that, given the way the man buries his face in his hands. Painful, messy, no closure. Yuta wonders if this man’s partner had given him a reason, or a reason that at least made sense. He wonders if the relationship had slowly fizzled without this man realizing. He wonders if they had fought a lot, leading up to this climax. He wonders if maybe the partner had cheated, or if this man had cheated and regrets it deeply.

Yuta chews on the inside of his cheek absently, lifting his glass. He glances at the man again, taking his his glassy eyes and furrowed brows, and it’s a little weird -- how long Yuta has been observing him. It’s usually a cursory glance, and then he moves on.

Yuta finishes his drink and stands up, waving half-heartedly at the bartenders whose name he still doesn’t know, then makes his way outside, allowing the evening chill to nip at his skin.

Maybe he’ll wander a little more than he usually does before going home.

 

. . .

 

Yuta finds himself in the same seat at the same bar with the same drink on Thursday evening.

The day had started out well, or at least normal. He woke up on time, showered, made an almost perfect fried egg, reached work early enough to get a cup of the first fresh made pot of coffee, and laughed at some joke the nice lady in the cubicle next to his made.

He had gone out to lunch with Sicheng. And that’s when things started to go downhill.

But he’s not here to think about Sicheng.

Yuta raises his glass to his mouth and looks around.

There’s a group of college students here for the end of happy hour, talking loudly and laughing amongst themselves. One of them tries a sip of beer and makes a face, but he presses on and takes another swing of it.

Yuta snorts softly, remembering when he had himself do anything to fit in -- until he was too tired to try anymore. It was nice, at least, to eventually find people that accepted him. He’s thankful, he really is, but sometimes even that isn’t enough.

There’s two women seated close to each other at a small table, maybe friends, maybe something more. Maybe one of them is in love, and maybe she’s in love with her friend sitting right beside her. Maybe she wants to say it and doesn’t know how, maybe she’s afraid of ruining their friendship. Maybe she has said it and was rejected, so she clings to any sort of contact she had have with this person under the guise of getting over her real feelings.

Yuta looks away and sets his empty glass down, asks the bartender for something stronger. He’s projecting.

Yuta tends to pace himself now and he doesn’t drink to the point where someone could consider it a problem. But this evening, making up stories is hard when all his thoughts go back to _Sicheng, Sicheng, Sicheng_.

The group of people next to Yuta moves elsewhere, and Yuta realizes the man from earlier -- the one dealing with a breakup -- is three seats away. It’s hard to tell with the dim lights, but his eyes look a little puffy and there may be stubble on his jaw and chin.

He wonders if that man’s partner ever checked the voicemails.

As if the man can hear Yuta’s thoughts, he turns to him. It’s nowhere near the first time someone has caught Yuta looking at them, but it’s especially unnerving when this man does it, though he can’t exactly tell why.

Yuta stands up suddenly and flashes a curt, polite to the bartender, letting him know he’ll be back in a few minutes. He weaves through various levels of drunkenness before reaching the dingy bar bathroom.

There’s a man mumbling to himself by a urinal, and the door of the stall at the end is closed, soft coughs echoing out. Yuta makes his way to the sink with the faulty soap dispenser that no one ever seems to remember to fix. He splashes some water onto his face, then stares at the mirror, considering his reflection as droplets slide down his face and get the neck of his shirt wet. What do people think when they look at him? What kind of stories would they make up? Is Yuta happy, in their world?

When Yuta returns to the bar, his seat is taken and the only open spot is next to that man. It’s not really a big deal, Yuta isn’t going to leave just because of one person. The man is on the phone again, anyway, when Yuta slides onto the seat.

“...Yong, can you please pick up. Or at least answer my texts. Please, you can’t just…” The man sniffles. His voice is heavy with unshed tears. “Please, this isn’t _fair_. I love you so much, please, baby. Please…” His hand drops to the bar with a thud, and he clumsily ends the call.

He seems to be in worse shape than before.

The bartender stops by with Yuta’s drink, and the man orders something for himself as well, the two of them drinking together without properly acknowledging one another.

Each time the man finishes a glass, he picks up his phone, either texting with shaky fingers or trying to call again. Yuta busies himself by tracing his fingers over the bar, drawing random shapes, until it’s time for both of them to drink again.

Yuta loses track of exactly how much they’ve had -- though he suspects the man beside him has had more -- and is struck with worry, uneasy tightness curling up in his stomach, when the man starts openly crying, murmuring indistinguishable words.

“Hey…” Yuta finds himself turning to the man. He doesn’t usually go beyond watching strangers and making up stories; he doesn’t actually engage with people. “You should take it easy.”

He turns to glare at Yuta, but the effect he probably intended is muted by his red-rimmed eyes and scrunched up nose. Yuta frowns, and the man waves the bartender over, slumping over in his seat. “Another…”

The bartender shakes his head. “We’re cutting you off, buddy.” He turns to Yuta when the man doesn’t respond. “Tell your friend he can’t have more.”

 _We’re not friends_ , Yuta almost says. But he slowly rises to his feet, the room spinning around him for a second before it straightens out again. He puts a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hey, come on. Let’s go outside.”

The man whines, almost petulantly, but doesn’t complain or resist when Yuta guides him up and out of his seat, an arm wrapped around his waist. It’s a bit of a challenge -- practically dragging the dead weight of someone taller than himself when he isn’t entirely sober either.

Yuta takes a deep breath, once they’re outside, nose wrinkling a little at the smell of smoke. He straightens the man up as best he can. “I’ll get you a cab, you should go home.”

The man leans against Yuta heavily again, breath heavy with alcohol. “I can’t go back.” He chokes out the words. “Everything there reminds me of him.”

“Do you have friends? Go stay with one of them.”

The man is silent for a moment, then he mumbles: “I don’t want them to see me like this…”

“You need a friend right now,” Yuta says, like he’s in any place to give advice. “Give me your phone.”

The man sniffs, but compiles, slowly typing his passcode in and then handing the phone over.

Yuta can’t help but frown a little when he sees the wallpaper, at the image the man must have been staring at. There’s two men with their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. One of them is obviously the man leaning against him, but he’s so much brighter in this photo, his entire face lit up by a wide smile that shows his gums. The other man is stunningly beautiful, with piercing eyes and an angular face. They, admittedly, look good together.

“Taeil,” the man finally says. It had taken him a while to come up with a name of a friend. “Call Taeil, please…”

It takes two tries to get through, and Yuta is greeted a tired sounding, “Hey, Doyoung.”

“Is this Taeil?” Yuta says, feeling every bit as awkward as he probably sounds. “Would you be able to, uh, pick Doyoung up? He’s too drunk to go anywhere alone.”

“Who is this?” There’s panic in Taeil’s voice, understandably.

“Yuta. We just met, he was drinking a lot…” He tells Taeil the address of the bar. He texts it too, then hands the phone back to Doyoung. A small part of him is tempted to see the kinds of things Doyoung had written to his partner, but that would be rude. And invasive. And none of this is really any of his business. They’re just strangers whose lives happened to come together for more than a few moments.

Yuta loses track of time, but his the arm supporting Doyoung is starting to become sore by time Taeil shows up.

He takes Doyoung easily, stronger than he appears, and eyes Yuta suspiciously as he waits for a Lyft. This whole thing is a bit weird to Yuta, so it’s probably even weirder to a third person looking in. He wonders if Doyoung will even remember any of this, what he thinks of Yuta (if he would even go so far to form an opinion).

Yuta takes the subway back, suddenly feeling too worn out to walk to his apartment. Everything that had happened today seems to weigh down on him at once.

Usually alcohol helps him fall asleep faster, but tonight, Yuta lays in bed, staring at the ceiling for what feels like forever until his eyes finally do slip shut and his mind allows him a few hours of calm.

But it feels like he’s only blinked when his alarm goes off next to his ear, hints of the sunrise filtering in through the blinds.

 

. . .

 

Somehow, Yuta feels frustrated being stuck in a rut, yet following a set routine is the only thing that’s keeping him going, the only thing he can manage. He used to be spontaneous — or so he was told. There’s photos of him on hiking trips, skiing in the mountains, swimming in the ocean, on random short road trips with friends that he had planned. But that feels like a lifetime ago, feels like an entirely different person.

Now, it’s almost mechanical, how he stops by his apartment after work, changes, then walks down to the bar.

He doesn’t make it inside though.

“Hey.” Doyoung is standing by the entrance, hands shoved into his pockets of his jeans. He looks good -- better at least. His shirt isn’t crumpled and he shaved today. And it doesn’t seem like he’s on the verge of tears.

Yuta raises his eyebrows. “Hey?”

What is he supposed to say? What is he supposed to do?

Doyoung’s mouth quirks up at the corners and he takes a step closer. “I was hoping you’d be here again. I wanted to say thank you, for last night.”

Yuta chews on the inside of his cheek. He didn’t think Doyoung had paid him enough attention to recognize him again on the street, or that he had made enough impact for Doyoung to want to seek him out like this. “No problem.” He’s sure there’s loads of other people who would’ve helped Doyoung too, if they had been in Yuta’s place.

“Would you like to take a walk with me? My friend made me promise not to drink today. I keep my promises.” When Yuta looks closer, Doyoung’s smile is tight, his shoulders curved forward, almost defensively. His eyes are lined with nervousness. “And I’m not sure that bartender would be happy seeing me either.”

Yuta grins this time, wryly. “Why? We don’t even know each other.”

“I’m Doyoung.” He gives a short wave. “Nice to meet you, officially.”

“Yuta.”

Doyoung starts to walk and Yuta finds himself following, even though he could easily refuse. It had rained earlier, and Doyoung keeps his eyes on the ground, side-stepping puddles. Yuta keeps his eyes on Doyoung’s feet, following his serpentine path. How much does Doyoung remember from earlier? What had his friend told him?

Doyoung stops suddenly, so Yuta does too. He looks up; they’re at a stop light. Cars speed by, splashing water onto the sidewalk, droplets spraying near their feet, but not onto their shoes. Doyoung takes a step back anyway. “Why’d you help me?”

Yuta isn’t entirely sure. Why do people help others, really? Is it innate compassion, or do people do it to feel better about themselves? Could that, in a way, be considered selfishness?

The light changes and Yuta takes a step forward. “Out of the kindness of my own heart,” he finally replies. It comes out a bit snarky.

Out of the corner of Yuta’s eye, he sees Doyoung smile, unphased. He turns right, after they cross, and walks another block, leading Yuta across another, smaller street, into a tiny park Yuta is sure he’s visited once or twice before. There’s a few teenagers skateboarding, music playing from the speakers of their phones. A man is walking his dog briskly. A woman is jogging, shutting out the rest of the world around her with headphones plugged in.

Doyoung stops in front of a bench. It’s covered in water, so they don’t sit.

Doyoung licks his lips, looking around the park, before asking: “Do you find me attractive?”

“What?” Yuta’s eyebrows furrow. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Doyoung, but it definitely wasn’t this.

He’s been looking at Doyoung for days, but he’s always been focused on a couple of features, his behaviors. Now, he looks at Doyoung as a whole -- the shape of his eyes, his soft lower lip, his cheekbones, his long neck and broad shoulders. He’s not unattractive.

“Are you attracted to me?” Doyoung steps closer. He’s wearing cologne. “Like -- sexually.”

Yuta can’t help but let out a short laugh, exasperated with Doyoung’s bluntness. He might as well be straightforward too. “You want to have sex with me?”

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I can find someone else.” The confidence Doyoung exudes is kind of giving Yuta whiplash. Is this what Doyoung is usually like?

“Why me?” He thinks he knows why, but he’s curious to hear what Doyoung will actually say.

Doyoung shrugs. “You’re hot and don’t seem like a total asshole. So.”

“Are you sure about this?” Yuta somehow feels like he’s asking himself more than Doyoung.

Doyoung nods slowly, licks his lips again. “I just...Want to feel something other than sad right now, you know?”

Yuta does know.

 

. . .

 

Yuta drags his fingers down Doyoung’s chest and follows his hand with his mouth, brushing his lips over Doyoung’s bare skin, kissing a mole he thinks is pretty.

Doyoung is, admittedly, pretty. Aesthetically pleasing. Maybe like a painting that he’d admire from afar, but wouldn’t fall deeply in love with, wouldn’t lust over. Yuta wouldn’t fuck a painting, after all (but here he is, moments away from fucking Doyoung). He blinks.

“Hey, are you okay?” Doyoung sits up a little, leaning back on his elbows. Yuta must have zoned out. “I can always leave, if you’ve changed your mind.”

Yuta shakes his head and puts on a smile he knows is charming. “I want this.” He nudges at Doyoung’s chest, pushing him to lay back on Yuta’s pillows again. He circles his tongue over Doyoung’s nipple until it’s hard, then sucks gently until Doyoung hums, pleased. And it feels good, to be able to draw out that kind of reaction, to make someone else feel good.

This is the kind of distraction Yuta has been needing: Something hands-on, something he can focus all his attention on, something with instant gratification.

He moves to mouth at Doyoung’s other nipple, pleased with the way Doyoung sighs and arches up, his fingers reaching up to tangle in Yuta’s hair. He tugs until Yuta looks up to see a flushed face.

“Come on,” Doyoung whispers, voice raspy in a way that goes straight to Yuta’s dick. “Fuck me.”

“Be patient.” Yuta presses one last kiss to Doyoung’s chest before sitting back on his heels in the space between Doyoung’s spread legs.

He takes the tube of lube he brought over to the bed and squeezes some onto his fingers, then takes Doyoung’s dick in his clean hand while he lets the lube warm up against his skin. He strokes slowly, bringing Doyoung to full hardness and drawing out soft moans. He watches Doyoung’s expressions carefully as he brings his slick finger to Doyoung’s hole and slowly pushes in.

“Finally,” Doyoung mumbles. He takes a deep breath as Yuta pushes further, his face contorting in pleasure once the last knuckle is in.

As much as Doyoung seems to want to rush, Yuta takes his time, working in one finger, cupping his balls in his other hand.

“You know…” Doyoung whispers, as Yuta starts to press two fingers in. He trails off, so Yuta continues tentatively, shallowly fucking Doyoung a few times, then pushing in until he can’t go further. Doyoung’s breath hitches.

“Once, he told me we were soulmates.” Doyoung whines softly. Yuta can’t tell if it’s in pleasure or not. “And I believed we were too.” A few tears escape him, rolling down his cheeks and stopping at the corners of his mouth. “I thought we completed each other.”

Yuta’s hand stills. Part of him wonders if he should reach up and wipe Doyoung’s tears away. But that would probably be too intimate for this arrangement that they have right now. Too familiar. After all, they don’t really know each other.

“Why did you stop?” Doyoung sniffles, eyes screwed shut.

Yuta raises an eyebrow, even though Doyoung can’t see. “You’re crying…”

“No I’m not.” Doyoung turns his head to the side, as if to hide his tears. He blinks a few times. “I just...I miss him so much.”

“I thought you were doing this so you’d stop thinking about him.” Yuta crooks his fingers inside of Doyoung, searching. “Focus on me.”

“Okay,” Doyoung breaths. He spreads his legs wider and rubs the back of his hand over his face, wiping away his tears. “Okay.”

They’re quiet for a while, aside from the low grunts and moans from Doyoung as Yuta stretches him with three fingers, the soft sigh from Yuta when he gives in and strokes himself with his free hand. They’re quiet -- until Doyoung licks his lips, voice thick with arousal when he says, “I’m ready.”

Yuta nods and pulls his hand away, wiping his fingers clean on the sheets. He feels around for the condom he placed at the foot of the bed and opens the packet while Doyoung reaches for a extra pillow, placing it under his hips. Doyoung loosely circles his fingers around his own dick while Yuta rolls the condom on, and offers a small smile.

“So,” Doyoung says as Yuta lines up his dick with Doyoung’s hole. He presses the tip in. “What’s your story?”

Yuta sinks in, slowly, fingers digging into Doyoung’s hips. He doesn’t stop until he’s all the way in, balls flush against Doyoung’s ass. “What?”

Doyoung groans and takes a breath, adjusting to the fullness, fingers curling into Yuta’s sheets. After a moment, he looks up at Yuta with sharp eyes. Yuta thinks kind of hates the look. “What kind of person goes to the same bar every other day and fucks a guy who’s coping poorly with a breakup?”

Yuta snorts at that. Partly because Doyoung is self-aware, and yet here he is, trying to fuck his feelings away, or fuck to feel something, or whatever. Partly because of how transparent Yuta apparently is.

“Tell me.” Doyoung wraps his legs around Yuta’s hips, pulling him closer. “I thought you wanted to distract me.”

“I’m in love with my friend.” That’s a place to start, at least. It comes out much easier than he thought it would. Yuta’s never really told anyone, not even his closest friend who probably suspects it. But it feels oddly comfortable to tell a stranger. There’s no consequences like this. Maybe that’s why Doyoung has spilled his heart to him too, had come to him in the first place. “Have been for years.”

“Do you want to pretend I’m your friend?”

Thinking about fucking Sicheng -- making love to him -- is dangerous. Yuta shakes his head. He wants to ask if Doyoung is pretending Yuta is his ex, but he doesn’t particularly want to see Doyoung cry again. “This is fine.”’

 _This is fine_ , Yuta thinks. This is easy. He rolls his hips, slowly, and then faster, angling himself to rub over Doyoung’s prostate each time. He builds up a rhythm as their breaths become heavier, the air between them hotter. It isn’t amazing, isn’t mind-blowing or life-changing, but it’s good. It feels good. And it’s definitely better than laying alone in bed with his hand wrapped around his cock and fingers in his ass in hopes of falling asleep faster.

“It was easier when he was single,” Yuta finds himself saying. There was, at least, a sliver of possibility, a chance for them to become something more. Even if he knew Sicheng didn’t see him the same way, Yuta could at least tell himself that maybe Sicheng wasn’t looking to date at all at the moment, that maybe he wanted to focus on himself and his career before getting into a relationship. He could happily live in denial. “But he’s got a boyfriend now and he looks so fucking happy. Part of me wants them to break up. I’m a shitty friend aren’t I?” He snaps his hips. “Selfish.”

He thrusts harder, punching out a moan from Doyoung instead of waiting to hear a reply. He doesn’t think he could handle hearing a reply.

“I can’t even hate his boyfriend either. Not when he’s that fucking nice.” Yuta frowns. The thought of Jaehyun and his warm smile and soft dimples and smooth voice makes him sick. “They make a great couple.”

“N-nothing ever lasts.” Doyoung breaks off into a whine. “Maybe you’ve still got a chance.”

Yuta scoffs and wraps one hand Doyoung’s dick and jerks him off at the same, fast pace. “If he hasn’t even considered me by now, he never will.”

Doyoung opens his mouth to say something, but Yuta cuts him off.

He leans down and kisses Doyoung roughly, a little harder than he usually would, a little sloppy. He’s spurred on by the way Doyoung grips his shoulder, his other hand flying up to Yuta’s hair.

Yuta groans into Doyoung’s mouth, and stays there, not really kissing anymore, as he fucks into him, focusing on the warmth around his dick, the fingers tugging at his hair and the thin legs around his waist, the breathy moans after each thrust.

There’s no passion between them, no heat, no spark, no excitement. But Yuta comes, and so does Doyoung, and that’s all that really matters.

Yuta pulls out with a soft sigh and sits back on his heels. He pulls the condom off and ties it before standing up. He wants to take a shower, but he feels exhausted -- mentally at least, maybe emotionally.

Doyoung stares at the ceiling, glassy-eyed, absently running his fingers through the come on his belly.

“Bathroom is on the left if you want to wash up,” Yuta says, then slowly makes his way out of his room, leaving the door open.

He doesn’t turn the light on when he splashes water onto his face and runs his wet hands through his hair.

Yuta thinks, maybe this isn’t even about Sicheng. Not entirely anyway. Maybe he just wants someone or something to fill up that empty space inside him that’s been there before he even knew Sicheng’s name. He tried running until he didn’t have the energy to try anymore, tried nicotine until Hansol got him to quit, tried hooking up with the first person who gave him attention, tried partying until he blacked out, tried losing himself in fantasy worlds and focusing on the lives of other people more interesting than himself, but nothing ever works. Not for long.

Because in the end, when he’s sitting by himself in his room, when he’s sober, when his last cigarette has been snuffed out, when he turns off the television and shuts his laptop: Yuta is empty and alone, fear and guilt and thoughts of inadequacy swirling around in his head, like uninvited guests that have overstayed their visit and show no signs of packing up.

He doesn’t know how long he stays in the bathroom, leaning against the counter, until Doyoung shuffles in and flicks on the lights. He makes eye contact with Yuta through the mirror and smiles a little (or maybe it’s a grimace). He looks tired too.

Yuta nods and trudges back to the bedroom, leaving Doyoung to do whatever he needs to do. He crawls under his blanket, pressing his face into his pillow. He’ll worry about dirty sheets in the morning.

He hears Doyoung come back, the mattress dipping under his weight. He probably doesn’t want to go back to his own place yet. _Everything there reminds me of him_ , Yuta remembers Doyoung saying.

 _That’s fine_ , Yuta thinks. He doesn’t mind the heat of another body near his own, even if it’s not of the person he wants.

  
  


. . .

 

Yuta has a dream, but any memory of what may have happened disappears the moment he wakes up.

He didn’t have any expectations, but he kind of wishes Doyoung had stayed the night. Wishes he had shifted closer to Yuta while they were asleep, until maybe his chest was pressed to Yuta’s back and his arms were around Yuta’s waist, granting Yuta some of the warmth he craves.

But of course, the sheets are cold and he’s the only person in the room. Yuta rolls onto his side and grabs the spare pillow, hugging it close to himself.

He wonders what Doyoung will do now. Would he want to see Yuta again, after this? Will he keep going to the bar, or will he go somewhere else? Will he keep fucking strangers?

Yuta sits up slowly and rubs his eyes. There’s a napkin sitting on his night stand, a few words scrawled onto it. He picks it up, dread already settling in his gut.

_Thanks for last night, I hope it was good for you as well. Good luck with your friend. - D_

Yuta sighs and crumples up the note and lets it fall from his hand onto the ground. He doesn’t even want to see Doyoung again, not really. It’s stupid -- the way a lump settles in his throat.

Because he is, once again and unsurprisingly:

Alone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i just want to say...mental health issues can manifest and impact people differently, and there isn't one set way for something to appear. parts of this are projections of my own feelings of emptiness...^^;;  
> that being said, i hope the way i've written this story was appropriate  
> and once again this is totally fiction and im not trying to say yuta is experiencing these or any other issues irl
> 
> thank you for reading


End file.
